


but in turning back the brackish waters will not reflect you

by riverbed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Infidelity, M/M, Stress Relief, both of them are a goddamn mess and i do not endorse this relationship, election antics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7088794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>death, or something like that</p>
            </blockquote>





	but in turning back the brackish waters will not reflect you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> requested by the ever-nasty @AARONSBURRR  
> as always i hope my propensity toward creeping nagging feelings doesn't distract from your enjoyment of the porn
> 
> title's from waiting for a dream by rufus wainwright; _you are not my lover and you never will be_  
>  _cos you've never done anything to hurt me_

Hamilton does not handle stress well.

He bites his nails all through election night. Waiting for the results, Washington’s aides are crowded around a small, wheeled-in TV on a stand. CNN’s pundits drone on while Aaron sips a Red Bull and watches Alex, who’s furiously refreshing his twitter feed with the thumb of the other hand in his mouth where he nibbles the cuticle. He’s wearing the clothes he wore yesterday, now rumpled - they’ve all been here for roughly 30 hours, but Aaron keeps a couple changes in his gym bag. Alex is the type of person who does not so much anticipate needs as react to them fashionably late; his stomach growls for thirty minutes before he eats. His head hurts all day before he considers Advil.

His hair is piled on top of his head, clipped messily with what Aaron can only assume are some of his daughter’s barrettes he’d found shoved in a pocket. It gives him the strange appearance of sitting in a salon chair waiting for some absurd hairstyle to set. There are sweat stains on his shirt from running frantically around the Hill, a spot of soy sauce from the takeout Washington had ordered them for lunch. Aaron searches the far reaches of his exhausted mind for the right word.  _ Frazzled _ , it supplies. It would probably do to describe the lot of them, right about now - despite the baby wipe shower and the fresh jeans, Aaron still feels pretty much like trash.

The moment it happens is surreal; there’s a collective sigh of relief, and it seems to take a moment for what’s happened to sink in. Everyone looks at each other, and then they all start shouting nonsensically at once. It’s disbelief, a high they never anticipated. Someone claps Aaron on the shoulder hard enough for him to slip off the corner of the desk he’s perched on and it only makes him laugh. They’ve done it: they’ve put Washington in the White House. The underdog, the straight-talking junior senator with a reputation for bad behavior on the House floor, has been elected, and the work feels worth it, all of a sudden; all the late nights, the grueling travel, the speechwriting and rewriting. Even the mishap with the merchandising company seems to pale in comparison to this moment; Aaron lets himself get righteously swung up in the bliss. Lafayette has picked Hamilton up and is swinging him around in a mobile hug.

Alexander makes his way through the group, and then he hugs Aaron, too, and Burr freezes, unsure how to react. He darts his eyes about the room - Lafayette has surely noticed, he’s shrewd enough that he sees everything, and now he gives him those knowing eyes - but otherwise people seem to be distracted enough to be unaware of the way he hesitates before putting his hand on Alexander’s back between his shoulder blades. Hamilton takes this as an invitation to prolong the contact: he shuffles his feet and moves in closer, his arms tightening around Aaron’s waist, likely-nasty breath hot on his neck, and that’s - nice, Aaron will admit, the feeling of another warm body against him, even if it’s a man whose views align with his just poorly enough to inspire a constant butting of heads. Alexander’s loudmouthed and fiery and  _ hyper,  _ all the things Aaron finds ill-advised, but now he just feels soft. Aaron would like to sink into something soft for a while, forget for a while the hard edge he’s been on for the past year and a half.

He puts his other hand on the small of Alex’s back. He doesn’t miss the slight shiver that runs through him when he lays his palm there, but he figures it’s just releasing nerves.

*

Their hotel room a/c is cranked. Hamilton whines and shivers and flops himself down on his bed, gathers the cheap comforter around himself like a cocoon, and Aaron mutters something about him being a bad roommate as he turns the thermostat down. He toes off his shoes, unbuttons his shirt, shoves down his jeans. He heads for the bathroom, takes a shower that’s far too lukewarm for his liking but lets the water beat on his shoulders anyway. He thinks of all the touch in that arid room tonight, how everyone had forgotten their discomfort in a moment of exhilaration. He thinks about the hug Alexander gave him, their bodies pressed together, Hamilton’s head on his shoulder, having made himself comfortable; his hair had smelled like mint even through the grime. He sighs and trails his fingertips down his stomach, and his cock stirs with slight interest when he brushes against it, but he ultimately decides it’s not worth it, not with this absolutely pathetic showerhead and the uphill battle it would be to get off at this point, the total exhaustion increasing the weight of his bones with every passing second.

Burr pads back to the main room and Alex is still wrapped in his blanket. He sits on the edge of the bed, nudges him. Hamilton makes an indignant noise and pulls it tighter around him. Burr makes a point of discreetly turning off Alex’s phone and tossing it to the floor under the bed where he won’t easily find it, then he yanks the blanket back. Hamilton makes a motion with his hands like he’s grabbing the comforter again, but when he doesn’t find it his eyes shoot open and he glares directly up at Aaron, who just casts him an admonishing look. He pulls Hamilton up since he won’t sit himself, kneels beside the bed and starts unlacing his work boots. He’s the only one who can get away with work boots under Washington’s watch. He could get away with a lot more, Aaron knows. He gets the boots off, throws them haphazardly to the side. Alex has been cooperative enough to unbutton his shirt; his skin glows warm, all olive and amber beneath the light russet. Aaron reaches up, and his hands freeze as they meet Hamilton’s at the man’s fly, and there’s a moment where the energy lying dormant in the room flares, just before their eyes lock too. Aaron feels whatever it was flow out and drown in the depth of Alex’s wide eyes. He finds himself distracted, and a little scared, by the realization that they’ve darkened from when he last saw them; as Hamilton takes his hands away, plants them behind him on the bed to lean back, he spreads his palm and presses the heel of his hand into his groin, feeling him stir, hearing the small breath Alex lets out from between his parted lips. Just feeling, just hearing. It’s interesting, after all, the way Hamilton responds to the slightest change in touch. He’s never thought about it before tonight, about exploring the man’s hypersensitivity, but now he finds the idea intoxicating. Finds his skin intoxicating, the expanse his opened shirt reveals as he arches when Aaron fiddles with the buttons at his fly.

“We both deserve good rest tonight,” he hears himself say, and Hamilton looks down at him through heavy eyes, lashes fluttering and lips parted, slightest glint of bright white teeth between them. Burr leans in, presses his nose against Hamilton’s warm belly, mouths along his hip, feeling the muscles of his abdomen jump for him. Every little shudder and shift that Alexander makes eggs Aaron on, addicted to the response, feedback sparking like a live wire in the miniscule space between them and feeding off the other end of the line.

Aaron flicks his tongue against him, light, and finally Alex vocalizes, a mewl of want by which Burr is hooked immediately. He licks harder and draws a real moan from him, a deep low-down noise that under any other circumstances he wouldn’t consider Hamilton capable of making. He bores down on him, swallows him down, nose back against him in the curls at his base. He fights down the reflex in his throat and focuses on the scent of Alexander’s sweat and musk, focuses on the long moan he lets out as he works his mouth around him. Hamilton’s panting when he finally pulls back for air, one hand on his chest snaking its way down his stomach while the other still supports him on the bed, his eyes half-closed and his lips bite-swollen. Aaron wants to kiss him but can’t draw himself away so he settles for suckling at the head of his cock, laving his tongue back and forth over the tip with a good amount of friction. Hamilton’s trying to buck his hips before Aaron would have even anticipated, but he wants to make him savor it, so he pushes him back to the bed, and Alex collapses back to it, the hand that’s been hovering at his own stomach coming down to smooth over Aaron’s head, fingers in his close-cropped hair.

Burr closes his eyes, lets himself feel the heat and electricity radiate off Hamilton’s body. The visual - the sight of Hamilton’s sweat-sheened body all sinewing and arched tight - is too much. He drops a hand, gets it worked under the waistband of his jeans and revels in the friction, but doesn’t give himself too much. Hamilton’s stirring, hips working back and forth since he can’t buck them up into Burr’s mouth, squirming on the verge of overwhelm. Aaron recommits, works his way back down Hamilton’s shaft to get him in his throat again and swallows once around him and then Hamilton’s crying out, and it’s over in an instant, far too short. As Aaron looks up at him, mouth still wrapped tight around him, he finds himself wanting more, wanting him whole, but he can’t - he quite simply doesn’t have the energy. He gets his slacks unbuttoned as he lets up his grip on Hamilton’s hip, and Alex looks down at him with flushed cheeks and pupils blown as he works himself off, efficient, helped along by Hamilton’s ragged breathing and the warmth of his skin. He peaks with an undignified whine, spilling on his hand and the bedspread in front of him, and wrings the last of it out of himself with a practiced twist.

Hamilton’s sat up, leans down to - not kiss, just press his nose to the top of Burr’s head. It feels nice, both weird and comforting. An illusion of domesticity cast over a thrown-together arrangement of convenience. Hamilton misses his wife and his children, and Aaron will feel wrong about that tomorrow, he’ll feel guilty over this for so many reasons, but for now climbing up into the same bed as Hamilton feels like the right thing to do. All the adrenaline, the excitement, of the past few months, all the hoping and praying and spying and conspiring and rhetoric, has all come to a head, the tension burst so thoroughly in their one shining moment of victory, and then in this second, private one, like working out the kinks in the craftsmanship. And it’s starting to wear off, delight ebbing into anxiety over the further work that’s sure to come, but Burr feels Hamilton shift and snuggle against him and he’s still soft, he keeps that softness, and Aaron falls asleep feeling pretty normal, considering.


End file.
